Shades of Pink (Lola Pink Mysteries Book 1)

by Gina LaManna

  The front door opened as my knuckles brushed against the wood. “Wow,” I said, coming face to face with George Clooney’s long lost brother. “That is a whole new level of service.”

  The man smiled at me and, despite our age difference, I wasn’t immune to his charms. Then he spoke, and anything that hadn’t already turned to mush went that direction quickly. “Hello, love. Here for the job?”

  “Um, yes. You’re the butler? Can you hold on a second?” I pulled out my phone and pretended to text while, in actuality, I was pulling up my camera. “Just letting my friends know that I arrived safely.”

  He nodded, but then everything went wrong.

  I tilted the camera angle so that when I took a stealth photo of the movie star handsome butler, it’d capture the beauty of his face. Unfortunately, I hadn’t turned my flash off, and I blinded him. What had started out as a stealth-bomb turned into a photoshoot.

  “So sorry!” I tried to turn the camera off, but somehow, I’d knocked the rapid-fire setting and at least six flashes deployed as I captured the butler’s face in all stages of confusion. “That was an accident. Sorry.”

  “What’s going on?” A female voice sounded behind the door. “Is she here? Bring her in, Gerard!”

  I shoved my phone on top of the lipstick walkie-talkie as a face appeared behind Mr. Studly, also known as Gerard.

  “Hello, hello my dear!” A red face appeared before the rest of the woman’s body. “I’m Lucy Dulcet.” A plump older woman, probably near retirement age, grinned underneath miles of red hair piled into a mess on top of her head. “Do come in. I’m the butler.”

  “Oh, I thought—” I glanced at Gerard. “Nevermind.”

  “He’s the keeper of the garage,” Lucy said. “Mr. Clark has quite an extensive car collection—classics, modern, custom-built—you name it. He was just leaving, weren’t you, Gerard?”

  Gerard, who I would guess was Australian, flashed an amused smile in our direction and stepped from the house. “Pleasure to meet you, Lola Pink. Whatever you need, I’m here to help.”

  “Oh, well, thank you.”

  “I notice you biked here,” he said, eyeing the spot where I’d left it standing. “If you’d like a ride home later in a vehicle, I’d be more than happy to help you retrieve your things.”

  “That would be great!” I called, waving as he continued his jaunt away from the house. “I am so embarrassed,” I whispered, turning back to Lucy. “I mistook him for the butler. Then my phone turned weird and I took six pictures of his face. I’m horrible with technology.”

  “Don’t worry, dear. Easy mistake. If Gerard hadn’t been hovering around the door, we wouldn’t have had this problem. You can expect some hovering though—it’s not every day we have someone like you arriving around here.”

  “Someone like me?”

  Lucy glanced around the hallway. “A woman.”

  “But you—”

  “Yes, I’m obviously a woman. And there are one or two others on staff, but we’re all old. You’re young, and gosh, you’re so pretty. Let me look at you. All of this gorgeous hair, and your eyes… I just love your eyes.”

  Lucy, plump and red-faced, had the same energy as Dotty Pink—full of love and enthusiasm with a twinkle in her eye. She looked like the hugging type and, sure enough, after Lucy had completed her full body scan of me, she pulled me into a squishy embrace.

  I don’t think I’m anything particularly special to look at—my hair is a medium brown that matches my eyes, and my height is just about average, too. If I had to choose one feature I like most about myself, it’d be my eyelashes, and most of the time, they are covered by a pair of dark lenses.

  “I think I love you, doll,” she continued. “Those sunglasses! Where can I get a pair?”

  “Actually, I’m thinking of opening up a shop on the Sunshine Shore. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll bring you a pair early! You’d look great in blue.”

  “Really?” A genuine smile from a place deep inside spread across her face. “I’d really love that. I don’t get out much.”

  “So, what did you mean about there not being many women around here?”

  “The staff here at the manor—well, we’re all old and crusty. Take me and Gerard, for example. Mr. and Mrs. Clark Senior hired us, and Mr. Dane Clark has never had urge to replace us. So, we just stick around the house and grow old. Don’t get me wrong, I love life in the castle. But, Mr. Clark, he’s peculiar, and he’s not very interested in associating with…oh, let’s call them friends. He prefers to be alone with his technology.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have told you I’m horrible with technology, then. That can’t look good for my new job.”

  She waved a hand. “Honey, you’ve made it through the front door. That counts for more than most job interviews.”

  I frowned. “I wouldn’t have guessed Mr. Clark to be so reclusive. Whenever he’s featured in a magazine, he’s got a beautiful woman on his arm.”

  “Yes, well.” A bit of the amusement went out of her face. “Sometimes books shouldn’t be judged by their covers now, should they?”

  “No, of course not. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Don’t apologize dear. Now, it’s time for breakfast.” She ushered me inside, turning those big, blue pools of light on me. “I need to ask one thing of you, Lola.”

  “Of course.”

  “Just…please give him a chance.”

  “A chance?”

  She waved for me to follow her down the entryway, checking the watch on her wrist. A bit mystified, I took in the manor as Lucy led the way. It was old, ancient really, and quite magnificent. Tall ceilings and huge, roaring fireplaces that would be lovely in the wintertime.

  Despite the bright sunshine outside, the inside of the castle had a bit of a cold, almost sterile note to it. Like a museum. My shoes squeaked along the entryway floor until we turned into another hallway, this one covered by thick, sound-muting carpet. Portraits of former Clarks lined the hallway, each staring down with a frown. There were two empty frames at the end, the first plaque read Randall Clark and the last had Dane Clark below it.

  “Bit morbid, don’t you think?” I whispered as we passed. “It’s just waiting for his photo.”

  “The Clark family is big on tradition,” Lucy explained. “Randall is his father, who retired from the company a few years ago. It’s an honor for them to have a frame.”

  “I suppose.”

  Mrs. Dulcet stopped abruptly before a doorway. “Once I push this door open, you’ll see a breakfast hall. You’ll walk in, apologize for being late, and if you don’t want a lecture about the evils of sugar, don’t eat the biscotti.”

  “O-okay,” I mumbled. “But—”

  “I’m trying to help you.” Lucy fixed her bright eyes on me. “I really want this to work, and I know you need the money. But first and foremost, my concern is for Mr. Dane Clark. Be careful, won’t you?”

  “I’ll take this job very seriously.”

  “Don’t break his heart.”

  “His what?”

  “Go on, dear. He’s waiting.”

  I stepped through the doors. The scene in front of me was foreign, as if I’d been teleported to breakfast with the Queen of England.

  A long, ornate table spanned the length of a formal dining room. Two benches that must have been antique lined the length of the table along both sides. At both ends sat two chairs with curled arms and woodwork so detailed it had probably been carved by hand.

  In the center of the table, the exquisite ambiance continued with polished silver platters topped with breakfast rolls, bright, flavorful-looking fruit, and a smaller dish of eggs, sausage, and toast. A decorative pot of coffee and two cups so thin I worried they’d crack if I took another step sat waiting to be filled.

  However, the most beautiful thing in the room stared directly back at me. Beautiful and terrifying, all at once. His sharp blue eyes watched my every move, listened to
my every breath.

  “You’re late.”

  “Yes, I am. And I have a very good reason. See, I started to come here on my bike, and there were some ducks in the middle of the road, and I had to take a detour, and…” I waved a hand, my fingers trembling with nerves. “I’m late, there’s no excuse, and I’m sorry.”

  He stood, moved around the table, and pulled my chair out. “Good decision to skip the story. I don’t like lies.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  He waited, hands balanced on the back of the chair. “Would you care for some breakfast?”

  “Oh, um. Sure. Maybe just some coffee since I already ate Pop-Tarts.”

  “Pop-what?”

  “I’ll take some eggs.”

  “Very well. Mrs. Dulcet, please.” Dane Clark helped push my chair in, lingering as he waited for the arrival of the butler. “She’ll bring fresh coffee since this pot has likely cooled.”

  “I was only ten minutes late, I’m sure the coffee is fine.”

  “The water must be boiled to two hundred and twelve degrees and served immediately after.” He reached over my shoulder and brushed his knuckle against the outside of the coffee pot. “It’s far too cold for consumption.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered, preparing another excuse. But all thoughts disappeared as he drew his hand back. I shifted in my seat and accidentally moved right into the path of his hand, which brushed against my shoulder. The almost-familiar zing of current jolted through my body. I froze.

  He froze, too. I wondered if he’d felt it.

  Then Mrs. Dulcet hurried into the room with a fresh pot of coffee. She halted in her tracks at the sight of us close together, gargoyle still. I cleared my throat, and Mr. Clark muttered, “Apologies,” before returning to his seat.

  Lucy laid a hand on my shoulder, a nearly imperceptible squeeze of her fingers telling me to relax. “Let me get you started with breakfast.”

  Mr. Clark nodded. As Mrs. Dulcet bustled to either end of the table and served up small dishes of food, Mr. Clark and I sat perfectly rigid in our seats. When finally she disappeared out of the room, I ventured for a bite of egg.

  “This is delicious,” I said. “The best eggs I’ve ever had.”

  “What did you say you’d eaten for breakfast?”

  “Pop-Tarts.”

  “And what are these?”

  “They’re sort of a mix between breakfast and pastries. Basically sprinkles on top of cookies with frosting in the middle.”

  A look of horror crossed his face. “You eat this for nourishment?”

  “I never thought of it that way. Mostly I eat it when my stomach growls.” Mentally, I added Pop-Tarts to the list of items to bring back with me. I’d turn him into a Pop-Tart convert if it was the last thing I did. “Don’t worry, the eggs are better.”

  “I’m glad they’re satisfactory.” He cut his eggs, took a bite, and chewed. When he’d swallowed and set his utensils down, he spoke again. “I trust you’ve read the contract thoroughly as I requested?”

  I winced. Then I got busy cutting up a piece of toast as Mrs. Dulcet filled our cups with coffee. Without thinking, I grabbed a biscotti and dunked it in the steaming cup. “Sort of.”

  “Sort of. What does that translate to in this instance? You skimmed the whole thing? You didn’t pick it up at all? You read bits and pieces?”

  “The latter.”

  “Bits and pieces? Which pieces?”

  “You know, the part where I signed my name.”

  He had picked up the fork again, but he set it down as a look of concern crossed his face. “You must have read some of it because you showed up here today.”

  “I gave it to my lawyer friend. She pointed out the important parts for me.”

  “Your friend…the one with the red lips and very large hair?”

  “That’s how I’d describe Babs.”

  He nodded. “She’s smart.”

  “She advised me not to sign the contract.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she thinks it’s crazy.”

  “It’s all in order, and it’s very professional, I assure you.”

  “She didn’t doubt that. My other friend thought you might have plans to chop off all my limbs and stuff me in your closet.”

  “Those are not my plans. If it’d make you feel better, I’d be happy to have my lawyers draw up a clause stating I won’t chop off all of your limbs and stuff you in my closet.”

  “You know what? I’ll take your word for it.” I dunked my biscotti and finished it off. “These are delicious.”

  “My pastry chef is from Italy.”

  “You have a pastry chef? What else do you have?”

  “A problem. And you are here to solve it.”

  “Understood.” I figured this plan would require energy, so I reached for another biscotti. “Since I’ve signed the NDA and whatever else that sold my soul to you, is it safe to tell me what you’re looking for now?”

  His eyes followed my hands as I dipped the second biscotti into the coffee. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific than that. I’m breathing, living, eating…I’m also curious as to why you’re staring at my food.”

  “You’ll have crumbs in your coffee if you dip it like that.”

  “Just makes it taste extra sweet.”

  A small shudder wracked his body as if I’d been mixing tequila with grape juice. “Your contract is valid from the moment you handed it over. The time of our exchange occurred yesterday at 10:42 a.m. It’ll stay in effect until I deem the job complete.”

  “And that will be?”

  “When you return my missing item.”

  “What’s missing?”

  “Plans.”

  “Again, you’ll have to be more specific. Are we talking lunch plans? A vacation? Remodel designs?”

  “A prototype for one of my newest devices. As you know from your extensive research regarding the Clark Company…” He paused, watching my face for confirmation. Then he sighed. “You didn’t do any research.”

  “Here’s what I know about you, buddy.” As soon as I said the last word, I realized I shouldn’t be calling my new boss—the very boss who was paying for the complete remodel of my grandmother’s shop—buddy. “I’m sorry, Mr. Clark.”

  He raised his eyebrows, but settled in to listen.

  “You came into Psychic in Pink a few days ago. To my knowledge, you’ve only stepped onto the Sunshine Shore maybe three times in my life. You own an entire city. You’re basically a king here, with all of your staff and cars and who knows what else you’ve hidden on the premises. As for research? I did it. Well, I tried to, but I wasn’t very successful.”

  He raised his eyebrow, for the first time showing a real sign of curiosity. “You did?”

  “Clark Company has a website that is a black page and says the name on it in white printing. Below it is a phone number. The phone number leads to an answering machine. I left a message, but nobody called me back.” I shrugged my shoulders. “That’s it.”

  I couldn’t tell if Mr. Clark was speechless, or if he’d suddenly gotten hungry. Because he took his time cutting up a piece of sausage and taking a bite.

  I did the same thing, but as soon as the forkful of food hit my mouth, I flinched. “Is this turkey?”

  “Extra lean turkey meat.” He gave me a stare that translated to duh. “It’s nourishment, not food.”

  I figured it wasn’t worth an argument, so I pushed the sausage aside and reached for another biscotti. “As for research, I gathered all the magazines you’ve appeared on or inside for the last five years. You’ve got a girl on your arm in half of the photos.”

  “And in the other half?”

  “You’ve got this mysterious bachelor thing going on—at least, that’s what the articles report.”

  “What do you think?”

  I crunched into the biscotti and opted for honesty. “I know you’re i
n the tech industry, but aside from making great strides for mankind I have no clue what you do, Mr. Clark.”

  “Your honesty is almost overwhelming.”

  “I try.”

  He sighed. “I own a technology company, as you well know. Most of our work is classified, hence the NDA. During your stay here you’ll need this to get around.” He pulled a card out of a thin, expensive-looking black wallet and slid it across the table. “You’ll have access to the living quarters, most of the manor, and Warehouse 7.”

  I glanced at the keycard. My face stared back at me. An awkward sort of headshot from…yesterday? “When did you take this picture?”

  “After you handed me the contract, of course. If you’d read it, you’d know that you’d given me permission.”

  “What, do you have a camera glued to your contact lenses?”

  “I don’t need contacts.”

  “Of course. Because you’re perfect,” I growled. “Out of curiosity, what else did I give you permission to do on my behalf?”

  “You agreed to live here, eat here, and work here until my plans are recovered. You’ll inform me in advance of plans that require you to leave the premises.”

  “Oh, golly gee. Fabulous.”

  “You’re subject to being searched at any time, though this won’t happen unless you’re suspected of stealing private property. We’ll be confiscating your phone and replacing it with a company one, but you’ll be given the details of that exchange later.”

  “I don’t plan to do that, so I think we’re good.”

  “In exchange for your services, we’ll provide a security detail should you need to leave the premises, and—”

  “Nope, not necessary.”

  “That’s not your choice. In regards to supplies, ask and you shall receive. Food, beverages, clothing, towels, you name it and it’s yours.”

  “Does that include tampons?”

  He stopped talking abruptly. “Excuse me?”

  “You said whatever I needed. I was making a joke.”

  “Oh.”

  “Pop-Tarts? I think we should stock the snack cupboard with Pop-Tarts.”